


Without Words

by Secret Memoir (agentj)



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Doyle
Genre: First Time, Kissing, M/M, Victorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-04
Updated: 2010-01-04
Packaged: 2017-10-05 19:12:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agentj/pseuds/Secret%20Memoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What Holmes wants, he cannot ask for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the canonical Holmes and Watson, but other than some physical descriptions, I suppose it could be anyone's version of the men.

Past lunch, but he's not up yet. Watson's not worried, exactly. In fact, it's about par for the course. Nearly a week has passed, and Holmes doesn't have a case. Wait another week, and he's likely to be catatonic.

Corner of his eye, shadow in the light under the door moves. Watson watches for a bit, but there is no more movement. Silence.

Perhaps Watson _should_ be worried.

Rising, Watson goes to the door silently, touches the door handle, presses ear against the wooden grain. No sound.

Inside, Holmes has made his way to the window. Perched at the ledge in a manner of speaking, he pulls back the drapery just enough to see the plain tree shedding its leaves for the winter. It looks as dilapidated and lonely as he feels.

The door handle makes the softest of sounds as if someone has touched it. Holmes looks at the light under the door. Two feet stand there, just outside. Watson.

Somehow, that makes him happy, if happy is what he feels. The ghost of a smile barely registers on his face.

The feet turn away and leave.

Holmes's face returns to its usual stoic self, but he still stares at the space under the door, as if willing the feet to come again.

A sigh, then the plain tree again. It's almost naked now.

Watson sits heavily on the wicker chair which crackles under his weight. Staring at the fire somehow doesn't seem any warmer than it was a moment before. Colder, in fact.

Perhaps he should have knocked?

There is a squeek as the door opens. Watson turns to look, but there is no Holmes. The room beyond is darker than it was a moment before. There is a slight flash of a dressing gown's sleeve, and a floorboard moans as weight shifts upon it.

Standing, Watson goes to investigate.

Holmes sits at his bed, looking as if he anticipated Watson's entrance. They look at one another, waiting for the other to speak.

Holmes nods imperceptibly. "Close the door."

Watson steps inside.

A moment more, Watson's face only slightly pinched. Holmes doesn't look unwell, exactly. His eyes aren't wild like they would have been had he gone back to his usual demons. Nor are they closed within themselves, lost in mental horrors only Holmes's mind could generate.

Holmes watches Watson as if speaking without speaking, hoping the man will understand without having to be told.

He unties the dressing gown.

"The equipment's up in my room—" Watson begins, but Holmes winches.

"No."

Holmes doesn't want that medical contraption or any of Watson's instruments on his body today.

They continue to watch each other, Holmes's great mind continuing to focus on Watson as if to divine what needs to be done without a word.

Holmes pats the space next to him.

Watson blinks and closes the space between him, sitting as a good friend, ready to lend a listening ear.

That's not what Holmes wants, either.

So he shows him.

In a moment, Holmes's leg is over Watson's, and then on Watson's lap. The weight of the taller man on the other, even if he does not weigh as much, pushes Watson back on the bed, though it leaves his neck in an awkward position as the bed is not quite as wide as Watson is long. The inertia allows Holmes's mouth to fall upon Watson's lips.

No words are needed for this, but the sound of mouths and wetness and breath fill the room anyway. Watson has his hands on Holmes's slim shoulders, but they don't stay the man on top of him. Perhaps they encourage him. Holmes doesn't stop, but the sudden ferocity slows.

Holmes touches his cheek to Watson's cheek. He trails a meandering path from one side of Watson's face to the other with the touch of his nose so the breath of his mouth can sigh against the curl of the man's hair where it has fallen over his ear.

Pulling back, Holmes looks into Watson's eyes, and he can see that action has communicated what he desired. This is good, because Holmes wouldn't know how to ask for it with words.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What they do, they cannot undo.

Laying askew on Holmes's bed, Watson's head crooks awkwardly next to the wall. Although surprised, he doesn't complain. In fact, from Holmes's vantage point straddling the man's lap, Watson appears to find it encouraging.

Grabbing Watson's lapels, Holmes pulls him back into a sitting position. "You didn't lock the door."

Watson considers arguing with Holmes. He didn't exactly _ask_ him to lock the door. But he knows Holmes knows what he's done and hasn't done.

Without leaving Watson's lap, Holmes reaches his lanky body back, long tapered fingers searching for the key in the lock. Watson knows Holmes won't quite make it, so he pushes his body forward, giving the man the extra inch to reach it. Holmes fingers turn the lock, but now he has nothing to support him to give him a push back, and if it weren't for Watson's quick hands on his back, Holmes nearly topples to the floor.

Looking up from his precarious perch, Holmes finds the situation he's put himself in a very humourous one, and he can't stop himself in a breathless laugh.

Watson's glad to see the blank stoic face disappear for a moment to see Holmes's face shine from out of the clouds.

Watson pulls Holmes back up to his lap, and as they silently giggle into each other's necks, the understanding between them is complete. Softly, gently, and most happily, the men enjoy the tête-à-tête. A nose nuzzles another's cheek. Soft, moist lips press against warm skin. Holmes closes his eyes and begins to lose himself in the sensations of his body against Watson's.

Watson's hands divest him of his dressing gown. Holmes's hands slip Watson out of his jacket and expertly untie the double Windsor to cast it off with the jacket on the floor.

Taking Watson's face in his hands, Holmes's discovers the deliciously sensual sighs of a British solider as they kiss. Even with eyes closed, Holmes knows how to undo a stiff collar.

Holmes's pyjamas are silky smooth under Watson's calloused hands. He loves the feel of the material riding up Holmes's skin and the way Holmes, obviously not used to being touched at all, stretches his torso at Watson's touch as if somewhat ticklish.

Holmes breaks their kiss a moment to divest Watson of his waistcoat and undo the rest of his shirt. The sensual hands that could quiver over the violin's neck to illicit a delicate vibrato slid against the linen of Watson's shirt over his chest. They slip under his braces and push them over his shoulders along with the shirt. He shudders as Holmes leans in, pressing lips to his bare neck where little tuffs of curled hair peek through just above his combinations.

Watson couldn't help the deep-throated moan that escapes him when Holmes's tongue rolls over the area to taste his salty skin.

"Shhh! Watson!" Holmes whispers tightly up into Watson's ear. "Mrs. Hudson may be in our rooms!"

Watson jumps and gasps, and he feels Holmes's lips spread into a smile against his cheek. "My dear Watson...."

He knows Holmes has tried to trick him. With a masterful stroke of his own, Watson wrestles Holmes down to the floor. "Fool me, will you?"

Watson covers Holmes's mouth with his own, hard and open. His tongue invades Holmes, and as the fight between him ensues, Watson enjoys the feel of Holmes's hips writhing and bucking against his groin. "That's it, Holmes," Watson grins with the air of a victor.

But he celebrates too early. Holmes demonstrates that incredible command of strength Watson would hardly give him credit for, and nearly flips Watson's back up against the bureau. "Never underestimate your opponent!" his voice snarls just before his mouth lays siege into Watson's neck again, hands splayed against his back, leg hitched up over Watson's.

It was Watson's turn to awkwardly buck against Holmes, gasping in desperation. The impetus between them causes them to roll back toward the bed, and Watson is above Holmes again.

Smiling, Watson remonstrates, "You were saying?"

Holmes snarls again, hands digging into the soft cloth of Watson's combinations. As if that were a predetermined signal, both men realize they are still far too clothed for this encounter, for just as Watson sits up to work on removing his trousers and combinations, Holmes uncharacteristically divests himself of his pyjama tops over his head without bothering to unbutton them and wriggle out of the bottoms.

Then for a moment both men stare at each other, now each utterly naked as the other.

There's fear of a sort in Holmes's eyes. Yes, Watson has seen him in various stages of undress before as he himself has seen Watson, but this, he knows, is different.

What they do, they cannot undo.

Watson reaches out his hand. Holmes clasps it.

They stand as equals, then clasp each other as brothers, and finally touch as lovers before they move to the bed together.


End file.
